


The Penchants We Feed

by CharbroilLaFlamme



Category: We Happy Few (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Disturbing Themes, Drug Use, Fan Characters, For Science!, Gen, Human Experimentation, Medical Experimentation, Mild Blood, Original Character(s), Science Experiments, Unethical Experimentation, religious reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 05:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15988814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharbroilLaFlamme/pseuds/CharbroilLaFlamme
Summary: Good old Doctor Charley Thrussell decides make use of an opportunity.





	The Penchants We Feed

**Author's Note:**

> Some more Doctor experiment nonsense. Enjoy!

They learned a great deal about the west Saxon dialect in their research. It was a peculiar side effect of the Plague trials. Not an unwelcome side effect, as it were. Just a bit incoherent.

To everyone else, the Plague was a myth—luckily rumours were swiftly subsided after a while. And the ones spreading the rumours were ceremoniously siezed and educated.

As long as the Joy kept pumping out good vibes, everyone would remain blissful. Unaware.

They were just giving the afflicted to the Doctors like gifts wrapped in spiderwebs. Like sacrifices. But it really only depended on their mood if they would search for a cure or vivisect them.

More fun to test on than the odd rotting cadaver and occasional Downer or Wastrel. And at the very least they’d be more animal than man at that point. No moral obligation to them. And attempting to cure them would only be a waste of resources and funds.

But today, it was a constable Merritt, bitten in Lud’s Holm by one of them.

He was left there with the Doctors, expecting some form of treatment—or at the very least, reassurance—but instead becoming their brand new test subject. Woefully unbeknownst to the distressed constable.

“Got bit by one of them freaks out there.” He said, cradling his arm, clumsily wrapped up in a scrap of white cloth—obviously rushed. Probably a hack-job by one of the other constables.

“Ah, yes.” The Doctor said hushedly, adjusting his circular glasses, he slowly untied the terribly knotted cloth—which stuck to the untreated wound. “Starting to get infected, did you even think to clean it?” He asked. Then he rolled his eyes theatrically after a moment. “Well, clearly not, but mistakes are bound to happen.” He said cheerily. “You’ll be patched up in no time.”

“Cheers,” Merritt said with a nod, resisting the urge to scratch at the irritated, reddened edge of the wound. Skirted by a dark, yellow and purple bruise.

 

* * *

 

“So, what’s the plan for him?”

“Well...” the Doctor, sir Thrussell—spearheading the endeavour—said in his usual honeyed, matter-of-fact tone. He was quieter than usual—but not so quiet that the room overshadowed it. “I’ve heard that some of the Constabulary can’t handle the usual Joy formulations,” he interwove his fingers ponderously, “if we can, we should try to test some of them on him.”

“Doctor Thrussell? I’m not sure keeping a plague carrier around without shutting him in the quarantine sector is safe...”

“We aren’t quite certain he’s really carrying it, are we?”

“No... no, sir. We aren’t.” He relented. “But perhaps... our biggest priority should be to treat him _before_ the pathogen becomes mature enough to spread.”

Thrussell snorted blatantly. “Ye of little faith,” he said, “you are not the lynchpin. And you are not the head of this research. I know what I’m doing.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“My friend,” said Thrussell, he crossed his arms, drawing gloved fingers tight on his coat sleeves, as he leant down to eye the skittish little aide from behind his spectacles. “I am a man of God and science—I did not _create_ the earth, but my job is to study its design. I know far more of these matters than you.” He sneered bitterly, furrowing his brows. “I urge you to direct the rest of your unnecessary queries to my postbox to be summarily retrieved and burned.” His smoky eyes alight with mystic fire, he teetered on the heels of his tawny rain boots in an oddly playful way. “Are we quite clear, sir Hayward?”

Hayward looked into Thrussell’s striking pinprick pupils, framed by a void of brown-coloured irises, he slowly veered backward from the Doctor.

“Clear as crystal, sir.”

“Very good, very good. Now, I have a dissertation to compose and a patient to speak to.” He wrung his hands among themselves. “I trust you won’t forget this conversation? Or perhaps you will...” hesaid afterward. “As long as you continue your hourly regimen of Joy intake.” He said shrewdly. “You know I can tell.” He added, looking at Hayward perceptively.

“Of course, sir. All of you can tell a Downer from a Wellie. Quite craftily, as well.”

“Have you ever smelt a sad person, Hayward?” Thrussell said, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with two fingers and crossing his arms behind himself. An ambiguous, ruminant look crossed over Thrussell’s face.

“Can’t say that I have, sir.”

“Something about it drives us mad—like the smell of fear to the Constabulary. One cannot truly understand unless feeling it themselves.” His voice turned more authoritative than usual. “Those of weak constitution must be weeded out, the sad and afraid must be neutralised to maintain the utmost level of strength.” He held a fist up valiantly, symbolising his crusade.

“Right,” Hayward uttered sceptically from under his breath. “Right...”

“I’m certain you understand.”

“Yessir. Yessir, I do.” He said obediently, nodding.

“I’m not a young man, Hayward.” Said Thrussell, cryptically. “Who knows how much longer I will go on. How much longer I can go on.”

“I see.” Said Hayward, peering at him concernedly.

“I’ve forgotten so much over the years, too much. Forgetting important things—dates and important occasions, but I’m fine as long as I can remember my Joy.” He thought into the air, then smiled at Hayward. “I should be going, Hayward, we’ll talk later.”

“Alright.”

 

* * *

 

_Everyone knows the sounds—their laugher, jeering and deep and jovial, the staccato of their sharp boot-heels, the sickening, biting crunch of tracheal trauma._

_The gurgled, strangulated sounds of protests—hands around necks, squeezing harder until they passed._

_And their unfortunate affliction could no longer infect the rest of them._ _The bad apple wouldn’t be able to spoil the bunch._

_Taken care of by the true Bogeymen in the dark and the night._

_Some of us forget to take our Joy, some of us get sick... then some of us want to die._

_And taking the Joy orally sometimes makes it worse, so we administer it another way—intravenously._

_What awakes in a Constable is stronger than the Joy—adrenaline, making them clumsy, carnally awoken, hitting just a little harder. And just a little faster._

_In good nature, I offered Merritt a small glass—he would be staying for a while. A drink would ease him into his new role._

_I pushed the square crystal glass toward him. But he took the bottle. Their distinctive thirst for lukewarm, cheap scotch whiskey was ever-present_

_He grinned smugly and put the brown-tinted bottle to his lips. I found it hard to believe that such a blithering, intoxicated moron was capable of doing such a heavy job._

_The first round of tests—he graciously agreed to them at the cost of being deprived of his eventual freedom—went well enough._

_I wonder, is this what it’s like to have a prisoner?_

_Actually, how on earth does one keep a prisoner?_

_Certainly they’re unwilling, and there are cages, right? Window bars and wardens?_

_Regardless, aerosol administering resulted in some dizziness, and some muttering. Then a headache induced in the affected party. Then possible openness to suggestion, which was not the result we were looking for. Though I will admit the idea of it is amusing_

_And some off rhythm, off-key singing._

_One would find it difficult to avoid singing along—thus, I increased Joy flow into the bolted-tight room._

_And Merritt was put out like a candle._

_Curiouser and curiouser._

_A rather unusual response to a Joy overdose, isn’t it? A full shutdown. Oh, well._

_Well, he should awaken later, by then all Joy should have been flushed out of his system after a good, long rest._

_I wonder what he’d remember when he comes to._

_Would he remember the tests? He wouldn’t be able to pop a Joy right after, so he should. What is his worst memory? His darkest day?_

_Merritt himself tended not to give off the aura of a man carrying a dark history on his shoulders. More of someone enjoying himself amongst others of like mind._

_Wherein does it lie, the secret we all carry?_

_Doctor Charley Thrussell._

**Author's Note:**

> Notes!:
> 
> — The surname “Thrussell” means “song thrush” and generally referred to a happy, cheerful person.
> 
> — Thrussell himself is a very quiet, subdued man with delusions of grandeur, however down to earth. He is about early fifties, and is fit enough.
> 
> — Thrussell’s research is usually done on impulse, if he finds an interesting opportunity to study arising, he will simply pour all of his energy into researching it.
> 
> — My inspiration for him is all over the place. Some of those inspirations are as follows: Sons of Perdition (the band), the art of Mike Mignola, and Repo! The Genetic Opera.


End file.
